


All is Well

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Feelings, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, RPF, Stream of Consciousness, absent Colin, depressed Bradley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bradley is lost. Colin is absent. </p><p>"I think I've lost my way,” Bradley whispers.<br/>Colin’s silent on the other side, but Bradley knows he’s listening. Someone is actually listening to Bradley, after all this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All is Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ememmyem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/gifts).



> I've been writing this story for over a year--but here it is!  
> I owe many many thanks to Sillygoose (for beta), Emmy (for Britpick and for amazing support!), Daroh (Yesimafan) (for prereading and cheering me on), and all the Brolin Riot girls.
> 
> This is Angst like whoa--just to warn you.
> 
> Disclaimer: None of this is real. It's just me playing around with some information and tweets.

 

**LONDON, 2013: SUMMER**

 

 _How is it that certain events in our lives set the course of our actions, until one day we find ourselves in the place we are now, not sure if it was meant for us?_  Bradley thinks as he looks down at the waters of the Thames flowing lazily under the bridge he’s standing on. And sure, it might be not a bad place in life at all; in fact, it might be even better than he’s imagined, but still, there’s a bitter taste of longing, underlined with all the what-ifs and regrets and lost possibilities.

He squeezes the strap of the camera he’s holding and moves the fabric against his fingers. It feels smooth and artificial, and Bradley chuckles humorously, thinking that this is exactly what his life feels like right now. The day is sunny and warm, and there are crowds around him—as always in London at this time of year (or any time of year)—and Bradley closes his eyes for just a second and pretends that he’s not himself, that a picture of him outside the Globe won’t be snapped any moment now, and that he can actually walk and smile and breathe without the constant sense of something missing. He puts on a cap and walks towards the stage door. There’s still a lot of time before the curtain goes up, but he can always play  _Tiny Death Star_  on his iPhone while he waits for the show to start.

“You were fucking BRILLIANT,” he texts later before entering the Underground, letting the crowds swallow him again.

 

  

**PIERREFONDS, 2012: SUMMER**

  
“So, you’re sure you don’t want another round?” Colin asks when everybody has finally left them in peace and it’s only them now huddled over a small linoleum table in the brightly lit cafeteria lounge.

“We’ve always said we’d do five,” he says and picks up his coffee. It’s cold and bitter and he hates the aftertaste it leaves in his mouth, but it’s a good distraction. A manly one.

Colin picks at his fingers and licks his lips, leaving Bradley transfixed, as usual. He’s trying hard not to stare. He needs to stop fucking cataloguing Colin’s each and every move.

“Yeah. But…” Colin says and falls silent again, then looks at Bradley intently, and Bradley can’t take it: not the gentle gaze, not the “Are you okay?” concern in Colin’s eyes.

“I’m done,” he says, and God, does he mean it. He’s done with laughing, and touching, and breathing the same air as Colin year after year. He needs to move on and find a place where Colin doesn’t cloud his every thought. He does perfectly well on breaks, when they’re not rehearsing and not filming and he can go home and swim and eat outside and just live. (And when did California start feeling like home?) He wishes he could confess the generosity behind his decision: that he wants Colin to proceed with his dreams. That he doesn’t dare wipe the enthusiastic grin from Colin’s face when Colin starts talking about his potential future projects. All the possibilities are opening up for Colin, if only Bradley says, “No more.”

“I’m done,” Bradley repeats, putting all his strength into the statement. “I don’t want to do it anymore. The writing is…” He shrugs. “You know what it is. And then the fans, and being away for half of the year.”

Colin nods his head again and again, like a bobblehead puppy placed on a car dashboard. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Right. So what you’re up to, then?”

Bradley shrugs again, then stretches his arms over his head and moves his head to the side, wincing at how his muscles ache there. He massages the place for a moment. “Don’t know. Something will come up. Always does.”

“Always does,” Colin repeats after him, nodding once more.

***

Later, after they’ve repeated take after take, and Colin has managed to smear his snot all over Bradley, he thinks that this is it. This is his good-bye, and he should maybe cherish it, make the best out of it, because there won’t be any more chances. Of course there will still be a few scenes left to do, but nothing quite like this. So he sags down in Colin’s arms and allows himself to fantasize that what they’re enacting here is real, that Merlin—Colin—loves him fiercely, possessively. That he’d never let Bradley go.

He stands up after the last take, feeling shaky and withdrawn, like he’s suddenly having the worst hangover ever. Colin’s still not in his own right mind, so they don’t talk when they put on their jackets and collect their phones and rucksacks. It’s as if they’re being released after serving their sentence. He smiles to himself at the ridiculousness of the thought.

“All right?” He claps Colin on the back and leaves the set without waiting for a reply.

 

 

**WALES, 2009: SUMMER**

  
They end up crashing in Colin’s room, in a makeshift fort on the bed behind a pile of cushions, crisps and beer. Outside the rain is pouring, creating a blurry wall between them and the world. There’s nowhere to be and nothing to be done, and for once since the whole  _Merlin_  madness started, Bradley can stop for a minute and just enjoy Colin’s weird presence beside him.

He’s not even sure what they’re watching, just that Colin is laughing his dorky, snorting laughter that makes Bradley’s stomach jump for no reason. Bradley’s transfixed by Colin’s fingers curling delicately around the beer bottle, scratching the label, and then tracing a drop of condensation flowing down the bottle’s neck. The light changes along with the scene on the TV screen, and Bradley looks up at Colin’s profile, soft and unreal in the flickering blues. Colin’s lips are parted slightly, as usual when Colin is so focused on something he gets lost in it like a toddler. And how does even Bradley notice such things? He’s supposed to be the oblivious one—the noisy jester, the hunky one with no brains.

And maybe because he’s just that mindless fool, Bradley leans over and kisses Colin on the lips.

For a moment—one horrible, petrifying moment—nothing happens, and Bradley wonders if he’s mistaken, if he’s misread all the flirting and all the curious looks and all the innuendos Colin’s been expressing to him during the last few weeks. And then Colin draws back and makes a sound as if he’s about to say something but doesn’t have enough air in his lungs.

“Fuck,” Bradley says. “I’m sorry, Cols. It was just… Sorry.” He makes a move to get up off the bed and run away, because there’s no way of making out this was a joke or an accident. He’s misjudged it all. He can just hope Colin’s good mate enough to not tell.

“No, no,” Colin says, shaking his head. Bradley starts to feel sick, and the only thing he’s aware of is that he’s got to get the fuck out of here. Right bloody now would be fucking best. But just as he’s about to slip from the bed, Colin reaches out and grabs his wrist, fingers getting caught in the material of Bradley’s shirt. “I mean, don’t be sorry. I was just surprised, I s’pose?”

Bradley doesn’t respond. His face is all hot. He’s shaking a bit, hyperventilating possibly, and still wants to bail.

“I mean…” Colin tugs on Bradley’s sleeve, making him crouch back on the bed. “You… Why?”

And what kind of question is that even? How can Bradley respond to that?

“Isn’t it obvious why?”

Colin tugs on Bradley’s shirt again, and Bradley doesn’t mind it at all, because Colin is kissing him now, open-mouthed and warm. He tastes like crisps and beer. It’s not too comfortable, with Bradley leaning at an awkward angle, his arm already shaking from the effort, so he lets his body sag down, crushing Colin underneath him.

“Mmm,” Colin says.

Making out has always felt artificial to Bradley, like licking your own palm—just a very wet one. Which is kind of stupid, when he thinks about it now, because making out with Colin is nothing like licking his own palm. It’s more like losing his mind, being out of place and time.

 _I’m kissing Colin. I’m kissing Colin._ His mind is fixed on this thought, on repeat, until it doesn’t mean anything anymore, until they are just words.

Colin’s pushing on Bradley while pulling at the fabric of Bradley’s shirt at the same time and then, oh, Colin’s hand is in Bradley’s jeans, fingers scraping over the waistband. Because Bradley doesn’t want this to be over, possibly ever, he stills, trying not to even breathe. He just focuses on the feeling of Colin’s fingers on his skin there, on Colin’s mouth still exploring his own, on the warmth of Colin’s body underneath his.

“Okay,” Colin says, pulling back. And if Bradley makes a desperate sound, he won’t ever admit it. “Let’s...” Colin grabs the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head, and suddenly Bradley’s looking at that ridiculously pale and thin frame, and the expanse of smooth skin. He reaches out and presses his fingertips to Colin’s collarbone, then slides them lower, a bit awkwardly maybe, until his palm is at too uncomfortable an angle. As he looks up, he thinks that he’ll forever remember this moment and the way Colin’s eyes look navy blue when Colin watches Bradley touch him.

The rustle of fabric is loud, their movements not sexy at all, when they get rid of the rest of their clothes. Bradley’s never had problem with his body or being naked, but getting undressed in front of someone you want is a totally different thing. Bradley feels sixteen and uncoordinated again—he must look ridiculous when he hops on one foot while shedding his jeans. He doesn’t dare throw a glance at Colin until they are both totally naked, with dicks hard and flushed and pointing up as if they are both preparing for a fencing match.

Bradley crawls back on the bed and motions to Colin’s cock. “Can I?” he asks, and Colin leans back on the bed and stretches his long legs in front of him, spreading them a little bit to accommodate Bradley when he moves closer.

Colin’s cock is hard and twitching, with beads of precome already forming on the tip as if inviting Bradley in. So Bradley leans down, places his hands firmly on both Colin’s hips—which are bony and hard and quite  _lovely_ against Bradley’s palms—and wraps his lips around the head of Colin’s cock. Then he slides down easily, as deep as he can.

He’s missed the feeling of having a firm, warm dick in his mouth. And below him Colin is perfectly still and silent, but Bradley can feel the straining of his muscles under Bradley’s hands. When Bradley starts sliding up and down in a good, steady pace, with his saliva dripping down Colin’s shaft, Colin gives up. He sags on the bed and lets his head loll on the sheets and starts breathing again. That first sharp and loud intake of air, as if Colin’s been underwater all this time, makes Bradley grip Colin harder, moan around his cock, and take him deeper on the next go.

There isn’t any warning—Colin tenses up and comes down Bradley’s throat, shuddering but still silent and tense. And Bradley, while sucking and swallowing, wishes that Colin would let go completely and stop being so wound up, even here. He can bet that if he put Colin in front of a camera or an audience, Colin would be bold and loud. But even without that Bradley can see the little things—the way Colin’s neck is flushed, the beautiful pink flush going up his cheeks, the way his lips are parted, teeth visible until Colin inhales again and licks his mouth, and then there’s a white haze of sudden want in Bradley. He lifts himself up, placing his own cock in the valley between Colin’s hipbone and groin that’s slightly damp from sweat. And Colin lets him, still not moving or making any sounds, but somehow eager, willing, even if he’s not showing Bradley any verbal signs of that.

“You’ve done this before.” That’s all Colin says after Bradley’s wiped them both up with his boxer briefs and crawled on the bed next to Colin, shamelessly naked, with sprawled legs, his spent dick lying fat and lazy on his thigh.

“Mmm,” he agrees, knowing well what Colin means.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“What was there to tell?” Bradley says, because it’s not like it matters. It doesn’t change anything.

 

 

**AUSTRALIA, 2013: SUMMER**

  
Colin’s not coming to Supanova this time, and Bradley exhales with relief when he learns that. At the same time his heart clenches with horrible regret. But seeing Colin is always like knocking an old injury. It hurts in a dull, familiar way. Bradley’s always on guard when Colin’s around, overanalysing his every move before taking his next step.

Without Colin he can do this, he thinks as they sit in the hotel lounge, trying to unwind after a zillion hours of airports and planes. He makes a broad gesture with his pint, amber liquid sloshing a bit over the rim. He can laugh and be all ‘Bradley,’ even if he loathes himself for it a little. But that’s expected of him, isn’t it?

He waves Eoin off, though, when he offers another round. "Cheers. I've had enough."

He lets his head fall back against the padded wall, closes his eyes for a moment and swallows, willing the slight dizziness to pass, feeling the tingle in his feet and hands as the blood rushes too fast. It's not the hangover that he's worried about—it's this whole ‘being Bradley’ thing: too loud, too handsy, too jovial, too  _everywhere_. He thinks about how Colin gets sweet and giggly and flirty when he drinks. And how can anyone be both withdrawn and forthcoming at the same time? He remembers asking Katie this, in a fit of feeling hurt because “everyone loves Colin and doesn't mind Bradley.”

"He's a gentleman." Katie shrugged.

"Gentleman?" This was the last thing Bradley would have called Colin—in his baggy jeans and oversized jumpers, mumbling in unintelligible brogue and getting all flushed and awkward whenever someone addressed him directly. Bradley surely was more gentlemanly with his proper behaviour, opening doors for women and such. 

Katie took a bite of her croissant and brushed at the crumbs that had fallen on her furry plush sweater. "I don’t mean, like, a Jane Austin gentleman. I mean, gentle." 

And, well, that made sense, Bradley thought. Colin was—is—“gentle.” Bradley could only wish to be so considerate, to not get into anyone's space. He's tried to restrain himself ever since, sometimes to the point of getting obsessed about it, thinking and rethinking his every word and gesture, trying to judge himself in Colin terms. Would Colin approve? Or would he say nothing and just glance in Bradley's direction, as if he didn't understand how anyone could be so all over the place.

In the end, he does the whole Harlem Shake thingy, though, and agonizes later about editing, going back and forth, back and forth, until he thinks   _fuck that_  and just posts whatever he has, then closes the lid of his laptop, fighting the bitter taste in his mouth. Because while Colin would probably approve of Bradley doing the dance, he’d not have participated if he’d been here. What’s more, because Colin wouldn’t have joined in, Bradley probably wouldn’t have done it then either, so maybe it’s good Colin wasn’t here, because it was fun to do anyway and Bradley’s glad he had that opportunity. Or so he tells himself.

 

 

**LA, 2013/2014: WINTER**

  
Georgia smells like fresh peaches. This is what drew Bradley to her all those years ago—this and her honest laughter, along with her familiar sense of humour, and the way she clapped Bradley’s back when she was leaving after the first night they spent together. She smiled then, warm amusement and mirth in her eyes, so much unlike Colin.

But now, when they’re closed in the tight space of the airplane (and haven’t airplanes become a second home to Bradley now?), the smell makes Bradley nauseated. He's dizzy with it and he needs to get out, escape from  _this_ , whatever he’s trapped in. There's nowhere to go, though; the plane’s already taxiing towards take-off, and Bradley clutches his hair, leaning forward. He looks at a loose bit of a thread on the seat in front of him, the reds and blues mixed into the colour of vomit. He keeps reading and rereading the "Fasten your seat belt while seated" sign. And then the same in Spanish. And again.

“You okay?” He feels Georgia’s warm hand on his back and he tenses, wishing she’d take it away, not touch him, not breathe around him. The very same second, the deep, sharp, cutting sense of guilt makes him want to hurl because it’s not her fault; she’s always been good, so good to him. He’s a liar and he’s ungrateful and she doesn’t deserve this.

“Yeah. Yes.” He straightens up and flashes her a smile that he bloody hopes is a reassuring one.  

 ***

Later, as he enters the hall of their white-and-cream-and-grey flat, placing the bags on the floor and picking up the mail, he wonders if this is really his place—if he owns it, or if his life is a rented one, just like this apartment. Every time he comes to his LA home after travel, no matter how long it has been, he feels detached, out of sorts. Unpacking usually helps, but then he has to find a distraction in order to keep going. This is why he prefers to arrive late at night—he can just get into bed and then it’s the next day and he can get up like a normal person does.

However, it’s an afternoon, even if his inner-clock thinks it must be midnight. He’s cold and jittery, his mind flowing a bit. Georgia has gone straight to the bedroom, saying something about “taking a nap, please wake me in an hour,” but Bradley wants to set his body clock right away, so he does his best to keep awake, slouching on the couch and flipping through TV channels. He chuckles at some stupid prank Hammond plays on Clarkson’s car, but he’s seen it already so he moves on to the next channel and the next and the next. He settles on a  _Top Gear_  rerun and picks up his iPad, opening up a new tab. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking (or not thinking, just going on autopilot that’s been set in London) when he types “Colin Morgan” and goes to images. Pages and pages of Colin’s face fill his screen: Colin as cheeky Merlin, as bloodied and thin Cathal, as white-faced Ariel. Colin from various events, dapper in his suit or all scruffy in chequered shirts. It’s weird to see all the photos in one place. There are so many Bradley hasn’t seen, and does looking make him a creeper?

It hurts not to know the events though; it hurts to see Colin doing things Bradley’s not even heard of. There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t know about each other, once. He hesitates, but in a fit of madness he adds “and Bradley James” and is flooded with images of his own life. As he scrolls and scrolls down, the madness changes into something more fierce and painful—a fit of longing for years past, for youth gone, for the way he felt when Colin smiled at him on the Wales trip. And, fuck, weren’t they head over heels for each other then.

Bradley’s tense but he keeps scrolling, pausing on some horrible Photoshopped images of him and Colin kissing, then lower—a drawing with Bradley holding Colin from behind. He feels hot and cold. The drawing isn’t very explicit, and maybe it’s not them—maybe it’s Arthur and Merlin, but somehow Bradley can’t stop looking and clicking for more until he’s flushed and maybe a little sick, yet he still has to stare.

He takes the iPad to the bathroom, opens his jeans and wanks, fast, gripping himself hard, until he’s coming in long stripes into the toilet. He has to brace himself on the wall as his knees buckle under him, and for a moment he stands in the bathroom, weak-kneed and with his ears ringing, sweat forming on his back and his thighs shaking.

He’s just jerked off to  _Colin fucking Morgan_ , he thinks as he sits on the edge of the tub, jeans still open and his dick now flaccid and sticky. He tries to laugh but it comes out ragged. He flees the bathroom before he loses it totally.

***

That night when he finds his iPad on his side of the bed on the nightstand, all the blood drains from his upper body and he has to sit on the bed not to fall down. Has Georgia seen what was on the screen? Or was it locked already?

He unlocks the screen and yes, it’s still frozen on the same “Brolin” picture. He closes the tab as if it’s on fire, with his heart still hammering, then clears the history and puts the iPad away with shaking hands. He turns off the light, feeling blindly for the tiny switch and thinking how he hates this ugly lamp, wondering why they picked it out in the first place. He stays in the darkness, breathing, still feeling as if he’s been caught cheating on a maths test. He should sleep—it’s pointless to wait for Georgia to come home from one of her meetings that usually finish up late at night. Surely enough when he wakes up to the bed gently dipping on the other side, it must be around 2:00 a.m. He rolls on his side and snakes his arms around Georgia’s warm form.

He wakes up to the first light looming gently outside the window and tries to lie still, tries not to move so as not to disturb Georgia. He just stares at the window. He thinks that his body doesn't even know when it's day and when it's night anymore, what with the constant back and forth through the time zones. His stomach cramps in pain from some idiotic general anxiety that usually creeps up on him in the mornings, stealing his sleep. He tries to think of something nice, like meeting friends for lunch, but it only makes his anxiety worse. He worries what he'll say when they ask about work, or babies, or how he's been doing. And he’s so tired of those questions. Actually, he's tired of everything. He’d rather curl in a ball and vanish than go to that lunch. He wants to come up with some possible answers and then thinks of upcoming auditions, and then the shopping he's got to do, and the financial advisor he's got to meet, and the gift he's got to get for his sister's anniversary, and then his stomach is cramping so hard he has to get up to go to the toilet.

He waits, but the pain in his stomach doesn’t ease. There’s also pressure in his chest, as if he’s been underwater too long. It’s something that’s almost always present these days, and this feeling can even be comforting, the burn meaning he’s still alive, that he can respond to  _something_. It’s a constant ache that he’s learned to live with, but moments like this, when it intensifies, leave him gasping on the floor thinking he’s dying, having a heart attack or maybe a seizure. He clings to the bath edge and counts to twenty, then backwards, and again.

He inhales, holding his breath and trying to exhale in the way they teach in yoga classes, slowly, through the higher part of his throat. It should work, it should help if only he allows himself to give it a chance. But since he’s clearly craving the burn, he shakes and shakes and clutches the bath even tighter, until a sharp edge of tile not quite flush with the others breaks his skin a little and the small pain of it diverts his attention. He watches the tiny droplet of blood well up on his fingertip, and gradually his breathing slows and the pressure in his chest eases a bit. He stays on the floor for a couple more minutes, exhausted and resigned, ashamed of himself, as usual.

"You okay?" Georgia asks sleepily as he exits the bathroom, and he hums that yes, he’s all right, he's just going for a run.

“I’ll fetch breakfast later," Georgia says, turning on her stomach to sleep some more, and Bradley's grateful for no more questions.

He looks at her, squeezed into the pillow, with hair sprawling all around her and hands spread wide as if she's glued to the sheets. She always sleeps like this, looking like she's sinking into the bed, desperate for sleep and attached to her dream world. And Bradley remembers the times when he'd chase her into her dreamland, lying on top of her, burying his face in her hair, kissing the warm skin of her neck and grinding his hard, morning cock into her arse cheeks until she'd murmur, "Come on. Come  _on_." Then he'd slide inside her, slow and lazy even if a little desperate, and maybe pull out just before coming, spilling on her back and buttocks so she wouldn't feel wet and sticky all day.

He picks up his phone, fumbles in the bag for headphones, and goes out, putting on his running shoes outside the door. The air is crisp, sun shining brightly already, and everything is green, fresh and clean, like a postcard of a perfect life. Despite everything, it’s nice to be out and on the move. He crosses a few alleys and heads to a park, or rather, the lame excuse of a thing they call a park here. There are trees nonetheless, and grass and a dirt path for running, so it's okay. As he does his fourth loop Bradley wonders if Georgia has already woken up or if she’s still clinging to the sheets. He thinks about Colin, how he used to sleep all tangled up like a pretzel, as if he wanted to take up less space than he did. How he’d wake up uncomfortable and aching in the morning and then stretch like a cat and wince at the cracking sounds in his bones. Bradley himself sleeps like a huge tree trunk—heavy, limp and nonresponsive. Perhaps it’s telling, or perhaps it’s just the way bodies rest at night and means nothing.

The FIFA soundtrack he’s running to tells him he only has two hands and that he's working too hard and he snorts at that because he’s certainly  _not_ working too hard. It’s Georgia who works lately, going from meeting to meeting, doing speeches and galas and always coming back late, so late that he’s usually asleep after winning or losing a few matches in FIFA’s Ultimate Team. He can’t remember the last time they had sex—perhaps it was last month? Not this monthly cycle, surely. He should probably initiate something and soon, maybe even today. There’s no reason to put this off. He deliberates what they could do, and suddenly he’s reminded of another body and another smile and how nervous he’d been when Colin fucked him for the first time.

He remembers how Colin placed his hand on Bradley's hip and pressed a bit too hard, pinning Bradley down on the bed. His cock nudged at Bradley's rim but slipped each time Colin tried to push it inside. Bradley's face was squashed into the pillow—he’d gripped it and tried to relax, to push his arse back towards Colin, hoping this would make it easier for Colin to fit in.

"Maybe more lube."

Colin added more but it didn’t get any easier. If anything, things got more slippery and uncomfortable. But Bradley had really wanted this, so he’d pushed back again, harder. Colin's arm, still holding Bradley in place, was shaking a bit.

And then Colin was in. They were both panting, held in that sudden pause, with Colin above and Bradley gripping the pillow below.

"All right?" Colin asked.

"Yes. Yeah."

When Colin moved, slowly and so cautiously, it did hurt a tiny bit, but underneath the light burn there was the overwhelming feeling of being stretched, filled so much that Bradley wasn’t sure what to do with it. He wanted to simultaneously wriggle out of Colin’s grip, get free of the intrusion of Colin’s cock, and to have more of it, impale himself harder, fill himself up to the maximum.

"Oh, fuck," he said. "Oh, fuck."

"Good 'oh fuck’?" Colin asked, and Bradley laughed, the tremors of his body making him clench around Colin's cock.

He inhaled. "Definitely good."

The slide of Colin's cock in Bradley's arse was delicious, unbelievably so, but it was still such a strong feeling that Bradley didn’t think he could take it for much longer. His own dick was pressed to the mattress, leaking onto the sheets. Bradley let go of the pillow and snaked his hand under his body, gripping his cock hard and squeezing it at the base.

He must have made a sound because Colin was suddenly tensing behind him. "I can't," he said. "This is altogether..."

Bradley grunted his approval, moved his hips so his cock thrust into the tunnel made from his fist, and came, vaguely aware that Colin was coming, too.

Immediately, the stretch and burn came back and made it almost impossible to bear the last of Colin's thrusts. They collapsed, with Colin's stomach sticking to Bradley's sweaty back. Everything felt subdued, darkened and fuzzy around the edges.

When Colin withdrew a few moments later, keeping the condom in place with his fingers, Bradley winced.

"Okay?" Colin asked again.

Bradley tried to think. Was he okay? He seemed so. "That was... intense. Fucking hell."

"So, you liked it then?" One never knew with Colin—did he sound weary or just tired?

"Couldn't you tell? I'm still..." Bradley didn’t know what he even wanted to say.

He rolled on his back, wiped his face with the back of his hand, then let his palm rest on Colin's arm. They rarely touched outside of the actual sex part, and Bradley cherished that unexpected connection and the moment when Colin was too distracted or spent to pay notice.

"Not something I want to repeat every night," Bradley said when Colin shifted away from him and sat on the edge of the bed. "And not any time soon. But yeah, it was pretty fucking mind-blowing."

Colin turned around and the grin on his face was  _wicked_. It took Bradley's breath away more than Colin's cock had done just a few moments ago.

"Good," Colin said, and walked to the bathroom, condom dangling on his softening cock.

Bradley wondered how it would feel to have all Colin’s come inside his arse. For some reason he felt sad that he hadn’t got to know. So much that he had to close his eyes and breathe for a while before this craving passed, too.

***

As he’s running now, Bradley still remembers this dull melancholy he felt back then. He slows down because his knee is being an arsehole again, killing him with pain on each step. He has to grit his teeth and push forward, hating the plane, and hating the seats, and hating the immobility that makes his knee go stiff and achy on the next day. Every time it starts bothering him again he can't not think of footie, the contusion and the physiotherapy that took ages and yet still led to nowhere. 

Perhaps when we are young each of us believes in becoming a hero one day. Surely, Bradley believed he could be the next Bobby Robson. As the years passed he had to revise his expectations, but there still remained the vestige of a dream that he could do as well as Owen or Lampard, or maybe even Rooney. He knows now that he was never good enough, bad knee or not. Just the same as with his acting. He has limitations. He understands he has to work within the limits of his skillset. If he despises himself a little for not being the best, so be it. This is his life and he can't do better than try as hard as he can.

At least he was the Once and Future King. 

As he turns back, slowing because he's slightly out of breath now and the pain in his knee is getting unbearable, he thinks that probably the last time he was this tired was during that crazy run with Eoin at arse o'clock in the night some time last January in Dublin. Why they thought running in the middle of the night, pissed out of their brains, was the best idea is beyond him. Perhaps one always ends up doing idiotic things whilst with Eoin. Or perhaps Eoin suggested it because Bradley was too miserable to even get decently drunk. Colin’s refusal to meet with them, despite his being in Dublin to film, might or might have not been the reason for Bradley’s weird mood.

“So sorry,” Colin had said with honest regret in his voice. “I have to go to this meeting tonight and then I need to turn in early as we start at five. Um, one moment…”

Somewhere in the background a male voice was asking urgent questions, and rustling paper mixed with Colin’s voice on the speaker. Bradley could imagine some faceless guy, some Mark or Michael or perhaps Connor, ordering food for Colin, shuffling the menus and kissing Colin on the cheek with “See you later, baby.”

“Aw, Morgan, you don’t know what you’re missing,” Bradley had said. “Me and Macken—it’s going to be an  _epic_  night.”

And epic was about right, what with the running in the middle of the night through an unfamiliar park and all. Bradley had won the impromptu race, of course, even if he nearly got sick. In the end he stood on the grass, hunched over and heaving, when Eoin clapped him hard on the back.

"Lucky bastard," Eoin choked out, making Bradley snort because luck didn’t have anything to do with Bradley being obviously faster and Eoin being the sore loser, blaming loose shoelaces.

They sat on a low stone wall, too exhausted to go back to the hotel, irresponsibly freezing their arses on the damp, cold surface. Bradley closed his eyes, everything still swirling a bit from all the alcohol they'd drunk earlier, and thought that he didn't want to go back. That he'd rather stay in this park forever, cold and forgotten. When Eoin made a move to go, Bradley hid his head in between his knees and pretended he hadn’t noticed.

He felt a warm hand on his neck, and when he looked up there was Eoin crouching in front of him.

"Come on," Eoin said as he stood, extending his hand to help Bradley up.  

Bradley was as grateful as ever for Eoin not commenting on anything.

***

When Bradley finally gets back home from his run Georgia isn't there. She must have gone to the market to fetch fresh bread and fruit, so Bradley pours himself a glass of water from the tap and sits heavily at the table, waiting for his heart rate to settle down so he can shower. 

This is how Georgia finds him—tired and sweaty with his forearms sticking to the polished surface. He can see the condensation forming on the half-empty glass, and he watches a droplet come down to vanish under the glass bottom.

“Would you fuck me?” he asks Georgia, not looking at her. Perhaps if he says it right away it won’t be as embarrassing.

“Sure,” she says and smiles. “Let me just…” She heads to the counter to put the shopping bags there.

“No,” Bradley says. “I meant: would  _you_  fuck me?”

Georgia turns around. “As in…?”

“Yes.” His voice has gone oddly rough. Because perhaps he needs just that.

Georgia slowly comes forward, pushes the chair back, and sits, putting a baguette on the table.

“Bradley.”

And here we go again. The “Bradley” said in this tone of voice. The way everyone says it lately—with the mixture of pity and affection. Bradley thinks that he can’t take it anymore. He will explode if he hears this one more time. He puts his face on folded arms on the table. He feels Georgia’s gentle fingers in his hair and sighs, remembering it’s not Georgia’s fault.

When she starts talking again, her tone is gentle. “Bradley, it’s not that I wouldn’t. You know that. But do you think…?” Then she trials off and then, “You should talk to him.”

“Who?” Bradley mumbles, still hidden behind his arms.

“You know.”

This is when he starts crying, and he really didn’t need  _this_  to happen. But Georgia doesn’t withdraw her fingers from his hair because she is just this kind of woman. Through fire and water with her, they used to tell Bradley, and he has to swallow at the sudden pang of guilt yet again.

“What will you do?” he asks later. He’s calm now, oddly peaceful, like after a fit of anger that leaves you hollow and empty, floating in the space left behind.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, getting up. Her smile is tight, though. “We’re good at the whole roommate stuff going on here. Let’s keep it for now. I’ll get a dog to keep me warm in bed. Always wanted one of those fluffy puppies that look like a used toilet brush.”

Bradley laughs. It sounds rough and strained, but it is there, and that’s at least a starting point. “I’ll miss you.”

She leans in to kiss him lightly on the lips. “As I will you.”

***

Everything is fucked up, Bradley thinks when he wakes up next morning in a hotel room, because he’s had enough decency not to take Georgia up on the whole roommate thing. He resents her a little: for the offer, for how easily she let him go. There’s a part of him that wanted her to fight for him, to tell him not to be stupid, not to leave. And now? He’s in a void, uprooted, not knowing where his life is heading and not knowing where he even wants it to go.

The hotel sheets are beautifully crisp, the covers soft, but despite it being only 6:00 a.m. he can't go back to sleep. Perhaps it's the lingering jet lag, his body’s vicious payback for messing with his circadian rhythm.

He sits on the floor next to the bed and drinks water out of a bottle, then allows his head to fall back. The ceiling is impeccable—no cracks, everything smooth and white—and for some reason it makes Bradley long for his childhood, when there was always something on the ceiling he could find and that could keep his head occupied for hours, inventing stories about the particular shape or stain. Somewhere along the way he must have lost his imagination.

He wonders if Colin feels the same, or if maybe Colin has kept the ability to see stories in each and every thing. Because this is what Colin does. Bradley misses the times when he and Colin would invent the most crazy plots about everything, how they would finish each other's sentences so the histories made no sense at all, but to them they were suddenly oh-so-hilarious. But maybe the ability to connect like this with another human is gone too, along with youth and first times and the silliness of being free and stupidly in love.

Bradley groans and slumps further to the floor, lying down on the carpet. It smells of dust here; the carpet is rough against his cheek and the position uncomfortable, but he stays like that, squeezed in the tight space between the bed and the bedside table until he finally falls back to sleep.

***

 _You should talk to him._  Georgia’s words echo in Bradley’s head, and he hovers over the phone, scrolling to Colin’s name and back. But what would he say? That he’s not with Georgia anymore? What would that change?

He taps at a name and waits for the dial tone.

“Cheers,” he tells Eoin at the news of Eoin’s show getting a second season. “Well done, mate. Fucking nailed it, knew you would, even that ugly mug of yours didn’t scare them off, did it?” He’s happy for Eoin and his congrats are sincere. But at the same time he can’t shake off the bitter vice of jealousy.

“I guess I’m moving out soon,” Eoin says, and Bradley can’t not feel sad to hear it.

Eoin’s a messy fucker, yes. Bradley remembers going around the flat, picking up the items left on the floor. But they’ve lived together since forever, through most of Merlin, and it’ll be weird to go back to London and not stumble over Eoin’s socks and Eoin’s books and Eoin’s everything everywhere.

He’ll be alone again. It feels so familiar that Bradley’s chest constricts painfully—not at the image of his soon-abandoned apartment, but at the memory of things lost, of his youth and chances somehow lost along with all the laundry and all the booze. He thinks of all the nights he’s laughed, trashed, while he could have,  _should have_ , talked to Colin, straightened things out between them. Maybe, maybe he could have found the balls to  _try this_  with Colin. Whatever it was. But Colin hadn’t wanted it then, and most probably nothing that Bradley could have done would have changed it.

This is why he can’t talk to Colin anymore. This and the same jealousy thing he’s got going on with Eoin now. Because he can’t take the joy in Colin’s voice at the announcement of each new project he gets involved in. He can’t do “congrats” anymore. He’s always wanted it for Colin because, hell, if anyone deserves acknowledgement it’s Colin. When they called out Colin’s name back then at the NTA’s Bradley’s brain stopped on “my Colin, my Colin.” Pretty much like when they were kissing for the first time. And that, combined with all the glorious pride he felt for Colin, made him all teary, despite the cameras on and all. He’d clapped Colin’s back, pretty much the same as when they were wrapping up the death scene for the last episode of  _Merlin_. Colin’s suit felt thick and slick under his arm. Colin used to look so awkward in a suit—like a teenager sitting an exam, all stiff back and nervous energy, but somewhere along the way he’d grown into the leading man, and even funny hair couldn’t make him look ridiculous. And Bradley was so fucking proud he just could not stop touching Colin, again and again.

Still, he can’t talk to Colin now. He wants to. He thinks of nothing else each time he finds out that, alas, they went with someone else, another direction. He wants to call Colin and tell him, as if hearing Colin’s voice could make the pain of rejection any better. But he knows it would all come down to Colin being supportive and considerate without understanding it, because directors already crawl over themselves to get him in their productions, because Colin does auditions he’s invited to personally, and because Colin most probably doesn’t ever hear “no.”

But if Bradley is being honest, that’s not the main reason he’s not calling Colin. It’s just that he knows how the conversation would play out. He’s scripted it in his head.

It would go like this:

“Bradley.” With that tone of voice that Bradley can’t take. And then, apologetic: “I’m seeing someone.”

Bradley would be understanding. “’Course you are. Right.”

“I’m sorry,” Colin would say, even though there’s nothing to apologize for.

And this is why Bradley won’t call. This is why he’s mumbling “mmms” and “rights” to Eoin, being supportive and teasing and very Bradley-like, as people expect him to be.

 

**VANCOUVER, 2014: AUTUMN**

  
Bradley’s foot drops into a puddle, and water seeps into his Asics, sock getting filthy wet inside his shoe. He flails his arms, way more broadly than he should, hating himself fiercely for this physical display. But his new friends, the iZombie co-workers, are all safely left behind in one of the clubs; he can’t recall which one and how many shots of tequila ago this was. All he knows is that he’s searched and tried, and then tried some more, but still failed to hook up for even a night. All the guys are straight and not interested, or too interested, or mostly just  _wrong_.

"This is a sexual desert!" he cries out, so fucking loud people on the street turn their heads and look, which makes him hate himself even more but also makes him giggle, because this is hilarious, isn't it? He can bet Cols would laugh. Colin was always laughing at Bradley’s jokes. And so Bradley pats his pockets, takes out his phone, and taps Col, thinking that Colin must have changed his number a dozen bloody times already since the last time they've spoken. It seems like years—no, eons ago.

"Bradley?" Colin sounds oddly out of breath over the phone, and Bradley thinks,  _Bloody hell_ , it must be the middle of the night.

"Did I wake you?" he asks. He keeps walking, although he's not sure where he's heading. Foot traffic is thinning, but there are still people walking the streets at this hour.

"Wake me? No, it's..." Colin pauses. "It's one in the afternoon. Why? Isn't it—" There’s a pause and some shuffling on Colin's side. "—what, like four in the morning in LA?"

"I'm not in LA," Bradley says, affronted for some reason, as if he’s expected Colin to keep tabs on him, know that Bradley’s filming a project, finally. He stops and leans on the wall of the nearest building, catching his breath a bit. "I'm in Vancouver. Cols, this is a bloody sexual desert."

Colin doesn't laugh, which makes Bradley slide down to the pavement. The street is wet but he doesn’t care, because Colin didn’t laugh.

But then Colin says, "What?"

Bradley hates to repeat it but he has to; he's sure Colin won't let him just back away from this. "Sexual desert," he says softly, unsure. “This bloody place. It’s what it is.”

And then Colin laughs. Thank God, he does.

"No, you don't understand." Bradley makes a gesture with the hand he’s holding the phone with that almost sends his iPhone down the street. "I've tried every club that is here, and everything is either too local or too fancy or too bloody straight, and I've tried this place and… blimey, the people there, the blokes… Cols, they were so bloody ugly, you can't imagine."

And Colin's laughing again. "Did you say blimey?"

And yes, maybe Bradley did, but it's not the point. Still, he laughs too, at himself and at saying “blimey” in front of a dingy club in Vancouver. He wants to cry, and perhaps his laughter breaks a bit because Colin says, "You okay?”

Bradley waits for the "mate" that should follow this sentence, but when it doesn't come he feels even worse than before he called.

"Yeah, yeah, swell."

"Swell? Are you sure you are in Vancouver and not, like, you've been captured by Sinatra-loving aliens?"

Bradley looks around, catching a glimpse of black, shiny leather trousers tight on somebody’s bum. He shudders and whispers confidentially, "In fact, yes. Cols, I'm in another dimension."

For a while they add details to the world in which leather trousers and words like “blimey” and “swell” are a thing. But then they fall silent and Bradley has to say it, because if there’s one person in the world who’ll get him it’s Colin, and maybe this is Bradley’s only chance.

“You'll laugh, and please do, all you want, but—I think I've lost my way,” he whispers.

Colin’s silent on the other side, but Bradley knows he’s listening. Someone is actually listening to Bradley, after all this time. “I can't tell what I want anymore. Where this is heading. Where I’m heading. Where I'm supposed to be. When we were starting  _Merlin_ , all I could think about were the possibilities. Everything was a journey. And now, I can't tell if I’ve arrived, you know? It's like I keep hopping on trains, and sometimes I miss my stop, and then I go back, but I don't know my destination. Christ, now I sound like Paolo Coehlo.”

Colin still doesn't say anything for a long, drawn-out moment, and Bradley craves his laughter again. He thinks this is what he needs right now, someone who'll laugh at him and not just do that "Oh, Bradley" thing again.

"I’ve never told you this," Colin says, and there's some uncertainty in his voice. "But—”

There is commotion on Colin's side, the voices in the background picking up and then being muffled, and Bradley wonders if Colin has closed a door behind him. “I have to go now,” Colin says, not finishing whatever he was about to say. “But we should… We should get together.” It sounds weird, as if Cols is a Facebook friend setting up a coffee date with Bradley. “When do you finish in Vancouver?”

“Six weeks,” Bradley says. “Then…” He doesn’t know what then. There’s that Antichrist thing coming up, maybe, if he’s lucky. But for now? He’s got no plans, He won’t tell it to Colin, though. It sounds childish and pathetic. “I might be in London, actually, for a while.”

“Okay, then. We’ll… talk Bradley, okay? I need to run now, but I really want to talk to you.” There’s something in Colin’s voice that makes Bradley’s heart beat faster. He might have thought he was dead inside, that nothing moves him anymore, that he’s in some nightmarish absence of emotions. But now there’s something, and it tastes desperately like hope.

Six weeks, he thinks.  _Six weeks._

 

**LONDON, 2014: WINTER**

  
The flat smells like stale air coated with a tinge of dust when Bradley lets himself in. Everything is mostly in order—the cleaning lady must have cleared up whatever mess Eoin left when he moved out—but Eoin's things are still scattered everywhere.

Bradley throws his duffle bag on the floor in the hall and opens a kitchen window, then looks inside the fridge. Jars of sauce and condiments line the door, but the shelves are mostly empty, save for a bottle of Heineken and a completely dried-out triangle of Parmesan cheese. Best to go straight away to buy essentials, Bradley thinks with a sigh. He's a bit jet-lagged again, but it's always easier this way around. He hates the off feeling and dizziness of being “behind” his biological clock. But when he’s switching to London time he’s usually tired, but at least not losing his grip on reality.

He laughs at himself when he unpacks the groceries later, as it seems he’s unconsciously picked odd things like boiled chickpeas, almond milk, and the black olive tapenade that Colin used to like. Not that he can put together any decent meal out of it. He opens the beer, grateful to Eoin being so considerate—or forgetful—to leave one. He’s not a Heineken fan, but he likes how the cold liquid settles in his stomach.

He sends a text to Colin.

_The prodigal son has come back._

The reply comes almost immediately.

_SWELL. Can I come over? 7pm?_

_OK_

Bradley hits send and leans back on the sofa. He stays like that, immobile, until the floaty, disconnected feeling fades and he falls asleep.

***

The buzz of the intercom startles Bradley awake. He feels a bit disoriented and rumpled. He wishes he’d taken a shower earlier.

Colin looks, well… the way he usually looks when Bradley’s not seen Colin for a long time, which is to say: stunning. His hair is ruffled, he’s sporting a surprisingly thick beard, and he’s wearing a ridiculous number of layers, jumpers thrown over jumpers, because some things never change. Seeing Colin like this feels like way more than just knocking an old injury. It's a solid punch in the gut.

“Hullo.” Colin smiles and Bradley grins back. When he doesn’t open the door wider, Colin gestures. “Can I come in? Or do I have to #Ask Bradley?” He makes a hashtag out of his fingers the way Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake did on a vid.

Bradley chuckles and takes a step back, making room for Colin to enter the flat. “Ha, you’ve read my tweets again, then.”

“Yes,” Colin says.” I'm kind of a stalker. A Bradley stalker, if you will. A Bralker. Like a broker, you know, but instead of stocks I monitor the value of your tweets."

Bradley glances at Colin, not catching on for a moment, and then he laughs, loud and long, throwing his head back and feeling carefree and young for a change.

“This is why I never tweet anymore.” He leads Colin to the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

“What, because I'm a Bralker? You overestimate my stalking abilities.” Colin smiles while taking his knapsack off. He rummages through it for a while, and with a sound of triumph he produces a bottle of Jameson. “That’s to celebrate you being the devil’s prodigy. By the way”—he motions to Bradley’s hair, which is dark, almost black these days—“it suits you well. You’d make a good Constantine, too.”

Bradley has to swallow through a lump in his throat. “Wow, you really  _are_  a stalker, then.”

“Blame Macken for this,” Colin says, leaning back on the counter top, something serious in his eyes when he watches Bradley. There’s an implication of “since you don’t tell me anything yourself these days” in the sentence.

Suddenly, the drink seems like a very good idea. Bradley fetches two glasses and checks for ice in the freezer, but since there isn’t any he takes a bottle of cold sparkling water, thinking that Eoin would most probably slice him in half with Arthur’s sword for profaning good Irish whiskey.

They settle in the living room, slouching down on the too-soft couch.

“I’m sorry about you and Georgia,” Colin says when they’ve drunk their way through a good half of the bottle. It’s late, and between talking about projects and mutual friends, and more of Colin’s projects and then Bradley’s possible projects and their non-mutual friends, and shows and things that Bradley can’t even recall knowing, they’ve reached that odd state of drunkenness that’s a mix of relaxation, giddiness, nostalgia, silliness and despair. 

“She's better off without me,” Bradley says.

It’s all water under the bridge now anyway; months and months have passed. Still, he misses Georgia horribly, along with the easy intimacy he used to share with her. The way she'd probably sit in between his legs on this couch, leaning back casually, effortlessly comfortable in his arms. With Colin, Bradley is never sure what he is allowed, what Colin would like. That is, if Colin’s here for the reasons Bradley hopes.

But maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s only here out of pity, or for the sake of good ol’ times, since Colin says, “On the phone, you said you've lost your way.”

Bradley dismisses it with a wave of his hand. "I was pissed out of my brains then."

"Well." Colin pauses. "I think I know what you mean. I mean, yeah. I’ve got what I wanted, I’m where I wanted to be, and, don't get me wrong, I’m grateful, but… Don't you wish...?" He trails off again.

Bradley wishes for so many things that he doesn't even want to start figuring out what Colin has in mind. None of Bradley’s wishes could have prepared him for the words that fall from Colin’s mouth next, though. "I never told you this, back then, but I was so crazy in love with you."

This. Bradley knew this, of course he did. But it is one thing to know, and quite another to hear it, especially years later. And why is Colin going back to this now? Does it mean anything? Is the past tense an intentional piece of information, telling him that it’s a finite period, something long gone, a river you don’t step into twice? Probably. It makes sense for Colin to want Bradley to finally close that chapter of their relationship, to stop the madness of stupid hope, because this is what Bradley’s feeling right now—some idiotic and self-destructive hope, against all odds.

But perhaps, and this is the kind of wishful thinking Bradley should most carefully avoid, perhaps Colin  _is_  opening a way for this… whatever it was between them, to come back.

Again, just like with their first kiss years before, it’s Bradley who takes the leap. He might regret this later, but honestly? How much worse this can get. Plus, they’re both drunk, definitely not enough to not remember this later, but enough to make them both bold and reckless, and maybe this is what they both need.

“I’ve never stopped,” Bradley says, not looking at Colin. He leans his head carefully back against the couch. “You know. I’ve never really stopped loving you.”

When Colin tugs on Bradley’s hand, Bradley finally dares to look. And this time it’s Colin who crawls closer to Bradley and kisses him, and kisses him again more deeply. It’s like how people kiss in the movies—those real silver-screen ones people hope they’ll get a chance to do in life—with hand pressed to Bradley’s cheek and leg thrown over Bradley’s hips.

 _I’m kissing Colin_ ,  _I’m kissing Colin_ , Bradley thinks, laughing at the déjà vu as he tackles Colin and pushes his hands under all the layers of clothes to feel the smooth skin of Colin’s back. Perhaps this is not what they should be doing. Perhaps they should talk first, establish some boundaries, make up their minds, or even maybe actually plan their future together this time around, but there’s way too much alcohol in their veins to talk about anything serious. Plus, whatever Colin can give, Bradley wants it, even if he doesn’t know what  _this_  is and what Colin has in mind.

He can feel Colin’s hard cock through the denim of his jeans. Bradley’s hard too, has been ever since they started kissing, because apparently Bradley’s dick has some deep memory or Pavlovian response, and it wants Colin on its own. But again, as usual, it’s Colin who shoves his hands down Bradley’s briefs, impatient and rough, and Bradley allows him, trying not to get in the way as he sheds his clothes and tugs on Colin’s shirt and trousers too. Because, sure, they can make out on the couch half-drunk and half-desperate, but hell if Bradley’s letting Colin dry hump him with his jeans on.

They have this moment then when everything stills—Colin’s naked above Bradley, who’s pushed down in the cushions with his head stuck in the corner—and they look at each other. Bradley licks his lips, preparing to say something which undoubtedly will spoil this moment, way too intense somehow, but before he does Colin spits on his hand and takes both their cocks in his fist, thrusting into the grip.

They’re not twenty anymore, and the alcohol dimming their senses doesn’t help, so it’s a bit too dry and takes too long, but Bradley wouldn’t trade this for anything else in the world. He doesn’t dare close his eyes until the very end, when he spills over their joined hands and presses his face into Colin’s armpit, inhaling the scent there. Colin strokes a few more times, slicked now with Bradley’s seed, and he comes too, gasping and then stilling as his dick pulses onto Bradley’s stomach.

They chuckle, with foreheads pressed together, and then kiss some more. It’s a bit sloppy, what with trying not to glue each other together with all the cooling, sticky come between them. Colin sits up with a sigh, his long, pale legs outstretched, and Bradley bends down to retrieve the boxer briefs so they can wipe up the mess. He sits then, wishing he knew what to do next; his head is still swimming from the whiskey, from the orgasm, from Colin being near.

The soft press of Colin's lips to his shoulder surprises Bradley. He stiffens and holds his breath, not daring to spoil this moment. Back in the day Colin was so “do it and leave” about sex. Get off as fast as possible, focus only on the important parts—as if it were a race or a job to be done—then move on to other activities. Bradley was the one left with a sense of longing for something more. Cuddling, maybe. Maybe some touching after would have been nice, or maybe a kiss that was more than a peck on the mouth. Something more than, "T'was good, yeah? Starting at five tomorrow? ‘Night, James."

But Colin doesn’t back off now. He kisses Bradley’s skin again and again, with gentle pecks that make Bradley warm all over. And when Colin ghosts a hand around Bradley’s body, pulling him back into a hug, Bradley swallows, not sure what he can do about this feeling that’s surging through him.

“I’ll stay, yeah?” Colin says into Bradley’s ear. Bradley hopes like hell, prays to all the saints that Colin believes in, that Colin means not just tonight but for good.

He covers Colin’s hands with his own and holds them there on his chest. “Please,” he says.

 

**LONDON, 2015: WINTER**

Bradley’s watching Colin stretched out on the sheets, his body lean and strong, so much more fit than back then in Wales. Colin’s hair is plastered to his forehead and his lips are parted as he breathes in and out steadily. Bradley wonders if he could catch a nap too, but he’s not really tired; he’s rather hyped-up, running high on endorphins, strangely elated. He’d like to run around the flat, or maybe tackle Colin hard, jump on him and ruffle his idiotic hair even more, or hump Colin until they’re both breathless and exhausted again.

He doesn’t want to disturb Colin, though. He looks so peaceful and he’s had such a busy time lately, so a nap will do him good. So Bradley fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and scrolls through Facebook and Twitter; he’s bombarded by images of food and babies and Endomondo maps and people sporting beards, making this a mindless trip. He puts the phone away and focuses on watching Colin instead: the elegant line of his nose, the luscious shape of his lips, the shadow his long lashes cast on his cheeks. If someone told Bradley a year ago that he could have this, not as a memory, but really, really  _have_  this—for good, possibly forever—Bradley wouldn’t have believed it. But here he is, with Colin’s warm body next to his, and when Colin wakes up they’ll raid their fridge in search of lunch, or maybe dinner, or maybe they’ll order something from that eco-place that serves that vegan food that Colin adores, and then they’ll watch a movie and maybe fuck some more. Or maybe they’ll just go to sleep, and that’s fine with Bradley too.

He really needs to do something about this feeling of being brought to life again, as if someone has taken his hand and pulled him out of the deep water. Surroundings have colours again, the air has a smell, everything is bright, and best of all is that he can breathe, deeply and without pain in his chest. His movements have purpose and he can face the next day without the horrid anticipation of yet another failure. He needs to unload this elation somehow or he’ll burst. He wishes  _everyone_  could feel just like he does, right now.

He grabs his iPhone again and tweets, “If you're having a bad time of it at the moment, I promise you...it will get better. Hang in there.”

He thinks of his favourite Twitter stalker, who maybe, hopefully, will smile when he reads this. Who will know it’s all because of him. And if it’s too vague for anyone else to get it? That’s fine with Bradley. For once, he doesn’t want to impress  _everyone_.

All is finally well.

 


End file.
